


To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar

by FaeryQueen07



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek commits a federal offense, Drag Queens, M/M, Mentions of knotting, Podfic Available, Sheriff Stilinski is a badass dad, Stiles has questions, cross-dressing, vague spoilers for season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 05:47:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaeryQueen07/pseuds/FaeryQueen07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the summer before senior year and Stiles is doing just fine. Right up until he gets shitfaced and tells a room full of drag queens that he’s attracted to an alpha werewolf and that oh, yeah, he’s been wondering about whether or not they have <i>knots</i>. It all goes downhill from there, but in a good way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd, though I've read it over twice. Thanks to [Roozetter](http://roozetter.insanejournal.com/) for the title!   
> 19/21/15 Update: Have re-read it again and made some minor edits. I probably should have found a beta way back when I wrote this.

[ ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/622331)

Stiles is blisteringly, blindingly—every –ly imaginable under the sun—drunk when he accidentally outs Derek Hale as a werewolf. To his credit, he’s managed to keep this a secret from everyone not his father for nearly two years and anyone who knows Stiles knows this is _the_ accomplishment of the century. At least for him. And if he’s really being honest with himself, he always figured he’d slip up if he got drunk, so he’s been pretty fucking careful until recent events made sobriety an ugly, ugly thing. Namely, his uncelebrated eighteenth birthday.

It’s not like he doesn’t get it. Scott and his mom are out of town doing the bonding thing after Scott nearly died (again) with, surprisingly, Chris and Allison, and his dad got stuck working a double shift, though he made time to enjoy some cake with Stiles around dinner time. Lydia and Jackson are with Danny and _his_ boyfriend in fucking _Hawaii_ , the goddamn traitors and Derek and his motley crew are off at some hunting lodge learning how to hunt cute furry animals. 

So Stiles is left alone, in Beacon Hills, and he’s all set to wallow in self-pity when his phone goes off with a text message.

 **From:** Amber Waves  
**To:** Stiles  
_Lambchops, get your cute little virgin tush over here. We’re getting you trashed for your birthday._

 **From:** Stiles  
**To:** Amber Waves  
_U realize I’m 18 & not 21, rt?_

 **From:** Amber Waves  
**To:** Stiles  
_I think it’s cute you think I care._

Which is how, two hours later, Stiles finds himself completely shitfaced and asking a room full of drag queens the one question that’s been burning in the back of his mind for well over a year now.

“Do you think werewolves have a knot? I mean, they’re supposed to be, like, some man-wolf hybrid, right, so does that mean they have a knot? For, like, super breeding?”

He twists around so he can look up at where Amber is stretched out on the couch. Someone starts giggling, but Stiles doesn’t check to see who it is. All of his attention is focused on Amber. And not letting his eyes cross.

“Cutie, it’s fiction. Werewolves can have whatever kind of cock you want them to have.”

“But that’s just it,” he argues, and he rolls over so that he’s sitting on his knees. “Werewolves are real! And like, not just that, but there’s different kinds, you know? Like, there are werewolves who were born that way, and ones who were bitten. And there’s this who pack dynamics thing, where there’s one alpha and the rest are betas, unless they’re omegas, but then they’re not really in a pack because being an omega means not having a pack and that’s, like, really gotta suck because packs are _awesome_ , only I’ve never really been able to figure out how to work the whole knotting thing into conversation without out it coming out weird.”

He pauses for a breath, and Amber just stares at him, eyebrows jacked up _way_ high, like she’s maybe considering taking away the drink he’s currently cradling against his chest. He scowls at her, downs the last of it and waits.

“So,” she says at last. “Let me get this straight. Werewolves are real, and you run around with a pack of them?” She sounds skeptical, which Stiles takes as a personal insult because he’s never lied to them, not like he has his _father_.

“Yes,” he replies, and he definitely doesn’t pout as he says it.

“And you’re attracted to one, obviously, or you wouldn’t be asking us this.” It’s not really a question, but it’s clear that Amber expects an answer all the same.

(Later, when the memory of this whole conversation finally resurfaces in his brain, he will absolutely _die_ of embarrassment.)

Stiles thinks of Derek and the taut expanse of muscle constantly put on display when he’s training with the wolves, and he sighs. “Yeah.”

“And there’s an alpha?” 

This is from Candy Wrapper, and she’s edging in closer, eyes so wide Stiles is starting to worry they might pop out if she leans forward suddenly.

“Of course we do. Derek’s our alpha. Derek Hale. Which, hey, maybe it’s just alphas who have a knot? Like it’s just alphas who have super creepy glow-y red eyes because they have to, like, pass on their super alpha genes or whatever? Because I’m guessing if Scott’s junk was suddenly way different he’d have told me about it.”

Someone hands him a drink, and for the next hour, Stiles indulges the curiosity of Amber and her entourage. He passes out eventually, which means he has no recollection of being woken up, or of being escorted home and carried up to his bedroom. Which unfortunately means that the whole part where he _told a room full of drag queens_ that he was _part of a werewolf pack_ is completely erased from his memory, right up until it’s not.

And because such is Stiles Stilinski’s life, he remains completely oblivious to his secret-blabbing right up until the day he comes home early from his part-time job at the library—the one place in Beacon Hills that hasn’t been invaded by werewolves or other supernatural creatures—to find Derek fucking Hale sitting on his bed with an open package in front of him. An open package that Stiles clearly remembers being _closed_ when he tossed it on his bed earlier that morning before rushing out the door.

Stiles thinks he should be concerned about what was in the package, about what Derek is holding _in his hands_ , since it came from Amber, but when he opens his mouth, what actually comes out is, “Felony!”

“What?”

Stiles allows himself a moment to feel extremely smug about the fact that he just startled _Derek fucking Hale_ , the werewolf Looming Master. He congratulates himself on a job well done, but then his gaze shifts down to what’s in Derek’s hands, and he feels his stomach drop at the same time that Derek says,

“What the hell is this?”

“Oh, shit,” Stiles says, and just like that, there’s this foggy memory of being at Amber’s, the cloying smell of her perfume, the burn of more alcohol than mixer at the back of his throat and—

“Oh my god,” Stiles says. He feels all the blood drain from his face, hears Derek saying his name distantly as his knees threaten to give out, and Stiles just barely manages to sink down onto the edge of his desk chair.

“Oh, shit, dude, Derek, fuck. I think—I think I might have outted you.” Stiles peeks up at him through is fingers, but Derek only stares at him blankly.

“Outted me?” Derek repeats.

“Yeah, you know, as a werewolf? To, like, Amber and her friends.”

“Amber?” This time Derek is growling and Stiles is out of his chair, scrambling backwards as he replies,

“Amber, yes, Amber Waves. And Candy Wrapper and Glenda Bender and Miss Construe and _ohmygod_ I just outted you as a _werewolf_ to _drag queens_.”

The silence that follows the admission is broken only by the thunderous beating of Stiles’ heart, and if it sounds loud to him, he can only imagine what it must sound like to Derek’s super senses.

Fuck.

Stiles is so fucking fucked.

Derek closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, they’re still their usual blue-green and Stiles is really glad for that, he is. Right up until Derek brings his attention back to the issue at hand.

“And what, exactly, does that have to do with _this_?” he snarls. As if this whole conversation isn’t enough, he shoves the goddamn dildo under Stiles’ nose so that the knot is _right fucking there_.

Stiles lets out a hysterical giggle because he’s seriously close to losing his shit right now. “There may have been some debate as to whether or not werewolves have a knot, and if so, is it, like, uh, rank specific.”

“Rank spe—seriously, Stiles? _Seriously_?”

Stiles is saved from having to answer by the sound of his dad’s cruiser pulling into the driveway, but then he realizes that his dad is _pulling into the driveway_.

“Oh my god, you need to leave right now,” Stiles says. He snatches the dildo out of Derek’s hand and goes to shove it back into the box, only to discover that there are two more already in there, one that’s about an inch shorter and somewhat skinnier and a monster of a fucking dildo and what the actual fuck? Where the hell does Amber think Stiles is going to put that thing? There’s a note and he spares a second to read it.

 _Kitten,_  
_Or should we be calling you_ pup _? Anyway, I figured you could use these to test the waters. Work yourself up to the big one, sweetie. I know how greedy you can be, wanting everything all at once, but I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.  
Amber_

Stiles’ face is _alive_ with humiliation, and he shoves the open box into Derek’s arms and tries to push him out the window. To no avail.

“Why the hell are you giving this to me?” Derek demands and Stiles can’t help but flail as he looks outside and sees his father standing at the curb, checking the mail.

“Because I can’t have that here! What if my _dad_ finds it?”

“Maybe you should have thought about that before.” Derek says it testily, like he has some right to be upset about the personal mail he opened without Stiles’ consent.

“Jesus, god, _fine_!”

Stiles snatches the box back and shoves it in his closet, in the way back where hopefully his dad will never have a reason to look. At least not until Stiles has thrown the damn thing out. Then, because his nerves are completely frayed, he grabs Derek’s arm and drags him out of the room and down the stairs to the living room, managing to push him down on the couch just as his dad’s keys turn the lock. They’re both sitting there, looking suspiciously like they’re up to something because the stupid remote isn’t working, so the television isn’t on, but Stiles’ dad just nods in their direction.

“Son, Derek.” And yeah, no, it will never cease to surprise Stiles just how easy his dad is around Derek now that the whole werewolf thing isn’t so much a secret as it is an unspoken rule that Stiles not become one anytime soon. “Just ran into Scott at the store. He said something about a belated party for Stiles’ birthday, and since I know your apartment can get kind of cramped with that many teenagers in it, I told him to move the party here.” He pauses to squint at Stiles and adds, “No alcohol. I’m covering for Ericson again, so I won’t be here, but that does not mean you can go crazy. It’s embarrassing when I get called to break up parties at my own house.”

“Once, dad,” Stiles says, exasperated, because, _dude_. “That happened _one time_ , and in my defense, I wasn’t even here. That was totally Scott’s fault.”

No one drinks, but that’s mostly because two thirds of the people there are werewolves and the other third, while human, have the sense not make idiots out of themselves in front of the rest of the pack. Also, Stiles _really_ doesn’t want to let it accidentally slip that the drag queens he hangs out with from time to time sent him dildos with fucking _knots_.

How the hell this is his life he does not know.

  
**. . .**  


The rest of the summer goes by fine and Stiles manages to keep the dildos hidden. He’d thought about tossing them out, but then he looked them up online and it turns out, these suckers aren’t cheap by any means. So he carefully re-tapes the box and hides it away up in his closet inside the vent that doesn’t work. He thinks maybe that’s it, but then, the week before school starts—his senior year, and isn’t he _amazed_ he’s lasted this long what with werewolves and hunters and yeah—Amber sends him another text. He whimpers when he sees her name on the screen.

 **From:** Amber Waves  
**To:** Stiles  
_Celebrating your last week of freedom. Bring your untouched little ass over here at 9pm._

Stiles would like to know what the hang up is about his ass and its current virgin state, but he’s pretty sure that’s not a can of worms he wants to open quite yet.

 **From:** Stiles  
**To:** Amber Waves  
_What do I say to my dad?_

 **From:** Amber Waves  
**To:** Stiles  
_9pm. Don’t make the ladies wait._

Stiles arrives at 8:50pm after promising his father he’ll drive safe and no, he won’t be running around the woods with werewolves, but thank you for the Wolfsbane version of pepper spray. He’s just raising his hand to knock when Miss Construe opens the door, and before Stiles can so much as blink, he’s being enveloped in a hug that threatens to squeeze the breath out of him. He hugs her back just as tight, then steps around her for more of the same from the others. 

The party isn’t limited to just the ladies this time; their entire entourage is there and Stiles greets everyone with a grin and a wave and only once wonders how the fuck this is his life. Seriously? Not because there’s anything wrong with this, but because he still doesn’t understand why the hell they like hanging out with him so much.

The night goes much the same as the others. Drinks are passed around and Stiles is forced into the center of the group where he is petted within an inch of his life. He’d be upset, but he likes the attention. The pack isn’t very tactile (he blames Derek’s sourwolf tendencies), though he’s been working on them. Isaac is the most receptive to Stiles’ platonic advances and surrenders himself to any and all hugs happily, as does Scott. Erica allows them sometimes, but Derek still glares him down and Boyd glances around shiftily, like he’s looking for the nearest exit. Jackson, well, the restraining order is gone, and Jackson’s been way less of a douche since he evolved from giant paralytic-toxin-dripping lizard to a real werewolf, but he’s still not particularly cuddly, except with Lydia. Whatever. Fuck them. Stiles will wear them down eventually. It’s what he does best.

He’s on his third drink, which means he’s definitely not drunk enough when Amber finally asks,

“So, have you used them yet? Please tell me you at least tried the small one. You’re a resilient thing, I’m sure it fit just nicely.”

Stiles squawks and flails, but there’s no escaping the many hands holding onto him. Face _burning_ he shakes his head. “No, but I still have them. Which, oh my god. Derek saw those! He, like, totally opened the box and was _holding one_ when I got home from work!”

“That’s a federal offense, honey,” Semi Sweet pipes up in a baritone that is still startling even after a year of hearing it.

“I know, right! I mean, that’s what I said, but turns out, if I want to report him and have, like, quick results? I’d have to go to the sheriff’s department. Which, seriously. I’m not even sure what I’d say to my dad, never mind what the shock would probably do to his heart.”

“Oh, sugar, don’t you worry about a thing. We’ll explain it to him nice and easy.”

“What? No. NO! Definitely no. You are _never_ meeting my dad.” He only cowers a little when Amber narrows her eyes at him, and concedes, “Fine, you can meet him, but oh my god, do not hit on him.”

Amber’s eyes are mere slits and Stiles can feel the menace coming off her in waves even before she opens her mouth. 

“You do know that not _all_ drag queens are gay, yes?” she asks in a clipped tone.

Stiles prides himself on being able to answer truthfully. “Yes, I am aware that ‘drag queen’ is not synonymous with ‘gay.’ But,” he adds when he sees her try to hide a smirk, “gay or straight, you _cannot hit on my dad_ , because I know you’re thinking about it, just to mess with me.” When she only glares at him, he laughs, soft and breathless. “Yeah, that totally doesn’t work. I have spent the last two years with _werewolves_. The lack of fangs and glowing red eyes really don’t scare me. Sorry.” He tacks the last on because he feels almost apologetic that his scare-o-meter bar has been raised to such epic proportions.

“Fine.” Amber sulks while someone refills Stiles’ cup, and the topic moves onto not necessarily safer ground, but something far less likely to end in Stiles’ father’s drag-queen-free virtue being compromised.

Stiles stumbles into bed in the wee hours of the morning, not even bothering to bat away the hands stripping him of his shoes and clothes. He thinks it might be Candy who tucks him in and he’ll have to remember to say thank you. Maybe buy her perfume, something with more citrus because the floral one she favors is too sharp for her personality.

When he wakes, it’s just past noon and Stiles’ head is pounding so hard he almost doesn’t make it to the bathroom before he’s sick. Afterward, he stands under the shower and wishes for death in the form of something non-supernatural, brushes his teeth because he’s pretty certain something crawled inside his mouth, died and is already decomposing. He’s only half aware of downing a glass of water with two aspirin, then he’s falling back into bed. Stiles is asleep the moment his head hits the pillow.

When he wakes again, it’s a little after 3pm and for a second he panics because _summer job_! Then he remembers that no, he gave himself the week off before school started so he could enjoy some of his summer responsibility-free. He yawns, drags on a pair of boxers and wanders downstairs. A search of the fridge reveals that his dad did not do the shopping the day before like he promised, so Stiles goes back upstairs, pulls on outside-appropriate clothing, hunts down his wallet and the keys to his Jeep and goes off on his merry way.

He’s feeling on top of the world when he gets home, despite the jackhammer still pounding away in his skull, and he unpacks the groceries, heats up a Hot Pocket and doesn’t burn his mouth when he takes a bite. His high-on-life mood lasts right up until he reaches his room and finds Derek. Sitting on his bed. There's an explosion of tissue paper scattered by his knee and a bag in one hand.

“Felony!” Stiles insists, but it’s weak. It wasn’t mail, just a bag left on his doorstep if the lack of real packaging is anything to go by. 

Then Derek holds up the scrap of silk and Stiles is ninety percent certain he’s going to pass out. He only breathes out a sigh of relief when he realizes it’s just a camisole. Though why that’s a relief at all is beyond him.

“What the hell is going on?”

Stiles snatches the camisole away, pausing long enough to appreciate the humor in the slip of red material before his brain catches up to the rest of him. He wants to hide under his bed, or maybe curl up in his closet and cry because _Derek_. So he’s rather proud of himself when instead he replies with,

“The ladies are just trying to encourage me to get in touch with my softer side.”

He shoves the camisole under his pillow and silently swears that later he’ll tuck it away with the dildos. After he tries it on.

Derek stares at him for a long, tense moment, then stands and crosses to the window. He pauses halfway out, turns and says, “Pack meeting tomorrow night. If you’re up to it, I was hoping you could do some research.” He nods towards a stack of books on the desk, a note set on top, then disappears.

Stiles gives it a solid hour before he’s tripping his way into the bathroom, camisole clutched in one hand, the small dildo in the other. When he’s half-collapsed on the floor of the shower, shaking through the aftershocks of his most intense orgasm to date and wearing the camisole, well, he consoles himself in the knowledge that what Derek doesn’t know won’t hurt either of them.

  


**. . .**

The thing is, Stiles has grown lax in the last year. Without the constant threat of imminent death hanging over his head, he forgets that there are mundane things that should have him just as worried. That means he’s completely caught off guard when, two weeks after the start of the school year, when he’s upstairs in his room studying instead of out with everyone else on a Friday night, his doorbell rings and his father’s voice calls out to him, high and thin. Strained.

“Stiles...?”

Stiles takes the stairs two at a time, not bothering to answer until he’s almost to the front hallway. “Yeah, da—whoa _shit_.” 

He skids to a stop at the bottom of the stairs and closes his eyes. He cracks one open and groans when he sees that yes, Amber and the ladies are, in fact, standing on his doorstep. For just a second, he contemplates playing it off like maybe they have the wrong house, but that’s not fair to any of them, and really, he doesn’t want to deny that they’re his friends. So he plasters on a smile and waves them.

“Right, so. Dad. Meet the ladies.” He makes the introductions and watches as his dad’s eyebrows climb higher and higher. Stiles thinks maybe they’re in the clear when people begin sitting down, but then Amber is reaching out to _pet his father’s cheek_ , and Stiles mouth goes wide with horrified shock.

“Aren’t you just the most darling thing? No, really, I can see where Stiles gets it. I could just eat you up.”

For just a second, his dad looks ready to flee, then something flits through his eyes, turns them dark in that sad way he gets three times a year. “He looks like his mom,” is what Stiles’ dad says, and Amber looks ready to sweep him up into a hug.

She doesn’t, for which Stiles is eternally thankful, but she does say, “I’m sure he does, but he’s got a good bit of you in him, too. I can see it in his smile.”

She sashays past, leaving the Stilinski men to talk in privacy, and Stiles is just opening his mouth to say _something_ when his dad shakes his head and says,

“This explains _so_ much.”

Stiles narrows his eyes—he’s been doing that a lot more since he started hanging out with Amber—and says, “What is _that_ supposed to mean.”

“Just that, if you want to keep other parts of your life secret, leaving women’s lingerie on the bathroom floor really isn’t the way to go.” 

Stiles chokes on the breath he sucks in, but once he’s calmed down again, he says, “So you’re not completely weirded out?”

“Stranger things have happened than finding out my son has been hanging out with drag queens.”

“Like werewolves and hunters?”

His dad’s face does this strange contortion thing when he replies. “Yes, like werewolves and hunters. And lacrosse coaches who have me calling them ‘Cupcake.’” Then he turns and heads upstairs to his room, leaving Stiles gaping behind him.

“What?! Dad, no, you can’t just say that and then _walk away_. What the hell!”

“Sugar!” 

There’s a promise of more humiliation to come in just that one word, and it has a part of Stiles wanting to follow his dad upstairs and maybe crawl into bed beside him like he used to do after one his panic attacks, but he’s eighteen and that’s probably too old for shit like that. So he squares his shoulders and marches into the living room, ready to take whatever it is Candy is about to dish out. He thinks he’s totally prepared for anything, which means he’s totally _not_ when a pink bag comes sailing through the air at his head. He catches it out of instinct, and is already pulling out the contents before he realizes that might not be the best course of action.

He doesn’t even blush when he pulls out seven— _seven_ —pairs of silk and lace underwear in various colors. His soul weeps, but only a little.

“Usually we shop two towns over because they have this discreet little store that caters to women like us, but their twinks section was decidedly lacking.”

Stiles closes his eyes and pretends he didn’t just hear that.

“Now,” Miss Construe says, “Come tell us why you’re locked away inside your house on such a gorgeous night, on a _Friday_ night, like some virgin sacrifice and not out wooing your werewolf alpha man.”

“Really, Stiles?” he dad says from the doorway.

And Stiles _does_ blush then, even as he starts denying Miss Construe’s words. The ground refuses to open up and swallow him whole, but thankfully his dad just gets this pinched looked to his face and leaves again, taking with him his silent judgment.

The rest of the evening is spent gossiping about werewolves, school and Stiles’ sadness over the involuntary destruction of the silk camisole—Amber produces a second Victoria’s Secret bag, wherein he discovers matching tops to the panties and _oh my god_ he is so fucked if anyone else in the pack finds out about this. He makes a fervent promise to himself that he will hide all evidence in the guest bedroom where Derek will never, ever find it.

Which means _of course_ , less than a month later when Stiles’ dad is working the night shift and Stiles _finally_ has the night to himself, Derek comes creeping through window. He does it as silent as ever, not two minutes after Stiles has laid down on top of his bed in nothing more than a pair of black lace panties and the red satin camisole that feels really fucking good against his skin. 

Stiles closes his eyes, feels the shame and humiliation sweep through him, and isn’t at all surprised when tears burn at the backs of his eyelids. The bed dips and he turns his head away, and he wants to say something, to tell Derek to just fuck off already, but he knows if he opens his mouth right now, he’ll do something even worse, like _sob_. Then Derek is touching him, fingers skimming up Stiles’ side and a low whine shatters the quiet between them.

“Stiles,” Derek says.

There’s nothing in his tone but raw _want_ , and that’s enough to startle Stiles into looking at him. Derek is blurry as Stiles blinks away the tears still clinging to his eyelashes, he laughs a little wet and a lot breathless when one calloused thumb drags over his cheek, wipes away the moisture there. Derek is just _looking_ at him, and he says, 

“Stiles,” again.

Then he leans in to close the distance between their mouths.

They’ll need to talk about this later, when Derek isn’t struggling just to keep his claws from shredding the delicate slip of underwear separating them, but Stiles lets it go for now. He gives himself over to the hot press of Derek’s mouth at his hips, the warm sweep of his tongue down Stiles’ cock, over his balls and back to where he’s still slick from earlier in the shower. He shivers as two fingers slide into him, and Derek moves back up, pupils blown wide, a hint of red bleeding through his irises.

“You didn’t have to do this, you know,” he whispers. Stiles tries to frown at him to convey his confusion, but Derek’s fingers are really fucking amazing, so settles for making what he hopes is a thoughtful noise. “I mean, I wanted you before...this. I just wanted you to have a chance to explore. To figure out whether you wanted it too or not.”

“I—” Stiles says, then, “What?”

“The text,” Derek replies. “Jesus, when I saw the text from you asking me to come over, telling me you wanted to show me something...” He breaks off, dropping his head down to rest on Stiles’ shoulder, his nose pressed to Stiles’ neck. He’s diligently working his pinkie inside as well, opening Stiles up wider than he needed to be for the smallest dildo. The one that is still lying on his nightstand in plain fucking view.

Then Derek’s words click, and he opens his mouth and says, “Yeah, that wasn’t me, that was Amber. I think she hijacked my phone because it went missing last night when I was over at her house.”

Derek blinks, then sighs. “Yeah, I'm beginning to get that.” There's a clink, a barely audible rasp that doesn't compute in Stiles' overloaded brain. Then Derek is moving over him, pressing his way inside Stiles with shallow thrusts. The muscles in his arm bulge and Stiles allows that to distract him from the burn of being stretched like this.

When Derek starts to move, something inside Stiles shifts, and he finds himself reaching out, hooking one hand behind Derek’s head and dragging his mouth down to Stiles’ own, and it’s good. It’s _really_ good. But then, because Stiles can never just let a good moment happen, he says,

“So wait, _do_ werewolves have a knot?”

Derek grins but doesn’t reply, which is fine. Stiles will find out eventually, hopefully sooner, but knowing Derek, not until later. So he pushes that aside and focuses on what’s happening right now, on the way the muscles are shifting in Derek’s back and how it feels to be so full. It’s over far more quickly than he’d like, Stiles gasping as comes, his vision going white and then black around the edges.

He feels boneless after, and when he blinks open his eyes once more, Derek is staring down at him, face pinched from the strain of not just letting go. Stiles smiles up at him, and he probably looks like a complete dope, but whatever. Tugging Derek down into another kiss, Stiles says,

“Maybe later you can help me work my way up to the big one,”

And Derek lets out a choked, ragged sound as he comes.

Once they’ve caught their breath and moved apart, Derek slips from the bedroom, returning with a wet cloth. He cleans them both up, then slides back onto the bed, and manhandles Stiles until they’re both under the covers. They fall asleep like that, and when Stiles wakes to the morning sun on his face because he forgot to close the blinds, he’s surprised to find Derek still there, head sharing Stiles’ pillow, arm curled tight around Stiles’ waist. He goes back to sleep with a smile on his face.

  


**. . .**

**From:** Amber Waves  
**To:** Stiles  
_Candy’s moving to Los Angeles so we’re throwing her a good-bye party. Have your devirginized ass over to my house by 6pm. And bring your alpha boyfriend. The girls are dying to meet him._

**Author's Note:**

> Check out the amazing [podfic](http://amplificathon.dreamwidth.org/2003843.html) by [Rhea](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhea/pseuds/Rhea)!!
> 
> And now there's cover art by [fire_juggler_arts](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fire_juggler/pseuds/fire_juggler_arts)!


End file.
